The Coward's Way Out
by legaldramafan
Summary: Rated M for suicide and inferred SLASH.  This story involves character death, not for children or teens.  Potential outcome of Reid's headaches.  DISCLAIMER: I do not own and have no rights to Criminal Minds and its characters.


Spencer sat on his bathroom floor, leaning against the tub, contemplating the irony of his situation. After all of the times he had cheated death, here he sat, rubber hose tied just above the elbow, fresh puncture wound on his inner forearm, committing suicide. This wasn't what he really wanted, but the voices wouldn't leave him alone. They were always with him; he'd tried Haldol, Risperdal, Abilify, Thorazine and now Clozaril. The psychiatrist had identified Clozaril as the drug of last resort, and now he knew why. The physical side effects were particularly awful, not that any of the medications were pleasant. And none of them could silence the voices. He had never felt guiltier for committing his mother because he now faced that fate and was ending his life instead. He couldn't bear the thought of spending the rest of his life in a near catatonic state, heavily medicated, listening to his new "friends" bickering in his head, so he had made the choice while he still had the ability to make it. He scored some heroin, his drug of choice, and had injected himself with a lethal amount. He hadn't used in many years, and he was certain the amount was more than adequate to do the job. He leaned back against the tub, allowing the numbness to wash over him. Finally, after a life of loss and suffering, Dr. Spencer Reid found peace.

The following afternoon, Derek Morgan stood on the front stoop of his best friend's townhome, a few DVDs in hand. They were supposed to spend the evening relaxing, watching movies, eating take-out, escaping from the horror of their jobs. Personally, Morgan preferred to escape in a night club, but he knew Reid would not be able to handle that environment. It had never been Reid's scene, and now, with the chronic migraines and the psychiatric problems he had been having, Morgan thought a club was nothing more than a recipe for disaster. He knocked several times, but there was no answer. _Shit._ _Maybe he fell asleep; all the different pills he's been popping have been wreaking havoc on him._ But Morgan couldn't convince himself. Feeling as though time was of the essence, he found the spare key to Spencer's home on his key ring and inserted it into the lock, discovering that the door was already unlocked. _FUCK! _Morgan burst into the house, not bothering to shut the door behind him. He called out for Reid, but there was no reply. He quickly scanned the first floor - kitchen, dining room, living room and powder room - but there was no Reid. He took the stairs two at a time. The bedroom door was open, and he could see lights were on in the master bathroom. He ran through the door, also open, and fell to his knees. Spencer, no, Spencer's body, sat there, needle by its side. Morgan reached out and felt for a pulse, but there wasn't one and the body was cold. For the first time since his father was murdered, Derek began to sob uncontrollably. He hugged the lifeless body closely to him. It was then that he noticed the plain white envelope sitting on the floor on the other side of Spencer's body. All the envelope said was "Derek." He opened the envelope and began to read, vaguely trying to not smear the ink with the tears that steadily fell from his eyes.

_Dear Morgan . . . Derek,_

_I'm sorry to have forced handling this situation upon you. The fact of the matter is, you are the closest thing I have to family, mentally competent family, and I wouldn't trust anyone else to carry out my wishes. I would like for you to cremate my body. You may do what you wish with the ashes, keep them, scatter them; it doesn't much matter to me. Things like that are really for the comfort of those left behind._

_Please call the facility where my mother lives. I'd rather she never knew that I committed suicide, but please provide her doctor with all of the information and allow him to make the decision as to how to best inform her. His name is Dr. John Huntingdon, and he can be reached at xxx-xxx-xxxx. Also, I have placed the majority of my assets into a trust to be used for my mother's benefit. You are the trustee, and I ask that you please use this money for as long as it lasts to pay for my mother's continued care. Attorney Leslie Jackson helped me set-up the trust, and she can be reached at xxx-xxx-xxxx. I am also entrusting you to dispose of my personal belongings as you see fit. Lastly, but perhaps most importantly, please look after Henry for me. Being his godfather is perhaps the single most important role I have ever played in my life, and I do feel guilty for abandoning him, especially since I know how it feels to be the abandoned child._

_I know you, and you're probably already blaming yourself _(and he was)_, but this is not your fault. I repeat, DEREK MORGAN MY SUICIDE WAS NOT YOUR FAULT. The voices drove me to do it, the voices and the doctor's total inability to prescribe me a medication that alleviated my schizophrenia symptoms. I know we never expressly discussed my diagnosis, but you knew I was seeing a psychiatrist, trying different medications, and with my family history, I'm sure that you were able to conclude it on your own. I am committing suicide because I am a coward. I would rather die than face spending the rest of my life institutionalized. So, to reiterate, this is NOT your fault._

_Sadly, this is not the first time I've been a coward. I'm not sure when it happened, but somewhere along the way, I fell in love with you. I've been in love with you for a long, long time. I was always afraid of telling you because you were also my best friend, and the thought of not having you in my life at all, when you rejected me, was too much. I realize that in addition to being a coward I am also being quite selfish, but I didn't want to die never having told you how much you mean to me. Derek Morgan, you are the sun, and the moon, and everything in-between. When I think of all the "good times" in my life, you are the one thing consistently present in those memories. Every time you called me "pretty boy," every time you slung your arm around my shoulders in a friendly way, every time you ruffled my hair, every time you came running to rescue me from an unsub, I fell deeper and deeper in love with you. Do you remember the case in Boston, when we went undercover to draw out an unsub who was targeting gay couples? We made out at the bar that night, and even though I knew it was just undercover work for you, making certain that we caught the unsub's attention, it was still probably the greatest moment of my life. You were the one who gave me the strength to quit using after Hankel; I wanted to be a better man, for you, despite the fact that I couldn't be with you. Even after we all found out about Carl Buford, I just admired you more. Despite your fears, the knowledge did not make me think any less of you. I had already admired you for overcoming so much adversity in your life, but the fact that you became the kind, compassionate, loving and loyal man I know you to be despite the abuse you suffered, is nothing short of amazing. YOU are amazing Derek Morgan. I hope you know that. Did you know that you are the only person I ever told about that incident in high school, about the humility of my older classmates stripping me down and tying me up? You were the only person I trusted with that knowledge. The only one. I don't necessarily believe in reincarnation, but if it does exist, maybe the next time our souls meet you'll be a little less flamingly heterosexual and I'll be more courageous. You are the love of my life, without question. I love you for your courage, your intensity, your passion, your conviction, your loyalty . . . I could go on ad infinitum. For right now, I'm just asking that you reach in the breast pocket of my shirt, I've left something there for you._

Morgan paused his reading and reached into Reid's pocket. He pulled the silver whistle from the pocket, and then he was crying so hard that he wasn't sure he could finish the letter. But he knew that he had to, and he flipped the page.

_Do you remember it? You gave it to me the day I failed my qualifier. Elle just sat there, mouth hanging open, finally giving me a look of shock and sympathy. I was pissed at your condescension, but mostly at myself for failing. I wanted to hate you, but even then I couldn't. I don't know how I got it back after I gave it back to you when I qualified, and I certainly don't know why I kept it. Maybe I loved you even then and just hadn't realized it. But I think you should hold onto it for me now._

_I know that sometimes words are simply inadequate to express the depth of one's feelings, but I've done the best I could. I love you so much that my love's depth is beyond my own mind's comprehension._

_Once again, I am sorry for doing this to you. If there is such a thing as heaven, and the powers that be let me in, I'll be watching you._

_Love always,_

_Your Pretty Boy, Spencer_

Derek laid down on the cold tile next to Spencer's body and cried and cried and cried. At one point he was able to gather his thoughts enough to text Hotch, "Reid's apt, 911." Hotch called local authorities and then the other team members. He wasn't sure what had happened but he felt as though he would need reinforcements to help him with Morgan. He was already driving when he began making phone calls, so he was first on the scene. He saw the door to the townhouse was wide open, and ran in. Before he could call out to Reid or Morgan, he heard Morgan's sobbing coming from upstairs. He ran toward the sound, and what he found broke his heart. Reid had clearly overdosed, and Morgan's head was lying in his lap while he cried uncontrollably. When the local officials arrived Morgan became completely hysterical, and began demanding an autopsy, saying that until they agreed, they couldn't have Spencer's body. They began to restrain Morgan, but Hotch intervened. He knew that Morgan and Reid's friendship, relationship, whatever it was he didn't want to know, was special. If an autopsy was the closure he needed, Hotch would make it happen.

Hotch guided Morgan out of the bathroom and sat him on Reid's bed. When the other team members arrived, they found Morgan curled up in a fetal position on Reid's bed, clutching a pillow that smelled like him, still crying. Hotch was trying to soothe him, unsuccessfully. Garcia wanted to go to him, but she kept her head on straight and stepped into the hallway to make a phone call. She sighed heavily as the phone rang.

"Mrs. Morgan?"

"Yes."

"This is Penelope Garcia, from the FBI's BAU. I work with your son Derek-"

"What happened? What city? What hospital?"

"No, no, Mrs. Morgan, he's not injured. I'm actually calling because, well, Dr. Spencer Reid, do you remember him?"

"Of course, Derek talks about him constantly."

"Well, he committed suicide ma'am, and well, Derek found the body, and-"

"Say no more, I'll be on the next flight."

Penelope re-entered the room to see Hotch gently prying open Morgan's hand. He took the note and the whistle. Morgan snatched back the whistle. He didn't want to share Reid's suicide note either, it was between them, but he knew he had to at least let Hotch see it. Hotch recognized the whistle. He remembered vividly the day Morgan had antagonized Reid with it. He hadn't witnessed the exchange, but Elle Greenaway had reported it to him, thoroughly disgusted with Morgan's behavior. He also realized that he was likely the only other person who knew the significance of this whistle, besides maybe JJ. Garcia had been with the team then, but she would have been in her lair, and the incident was not discussed. He unfolded the tearstained pages and began reading. As he would finish a page, he would pass it to Dave, who would pass it to Emily, who would pass it to JJ, who would pass it to Garcia. Everyone was crying. Morgan didn't notice that everyone was reading his letter because his face was still buried in the pillow. The team exited the room quietly, deciding to let Morgan grieve privately since they doubted anyone could convince him to leave and no one was about to attempt physically displacing the muscular man with the black belt in judo.

They sat in Reid's living room, all contemplating what they had learned about Morgan and Reid's relationship. They all had had different theories and guesses over the years, but now they saw the tragedy of it. A pair of best friends, both desperately in love with each other, but with one so deep in the closet that the other didn't know it, and the one in the closet so desperate to keep up appearances he never realized his love was not unrequited. At last, Garcia broke the silence.

"I called his mother. She said she would be on the next flight out of Chicago."

"Thank you Garcia. That was a very wise idea."

They resumed sitting in silence, waiting for a call from Fran Morgan with her flight details. Garcia periodically checked on Morgan, peeking into the room from the doorway. Eventually, Morgan cried himself to sleep, his hand still in a tight fist surrounding the whistle and his face buried in Reid's pillows. When Hotch left to pick-up Fran from the airport, he took the suicide note with him so that she could read it in the car on the way back to Reid's townhouse. The team had decided it was best if she were the one to attempt prying Morgan out of Spencer's bed.

Hotch had thought that Reid's suicide was the worst possible thing that could have happened to Morgan, but he was wrong. When the autopsy report arrived the medical examiner had concluded that the overdose of heroin had caused Reid's death, but she also discovered a very large brain tumor. Dreading the answers to his questions, Hotch called her before he dared to share the information with Morgan. After a long and excruciating phone call, he summoned the team to the conference room.

"I wanted you all to know that I received a copy of Reid's autopsy report today," he began sullenly. Rossi looked at him curiously, wondering what the autopsy report could possibly say that required a team meeting. Morgan had just returned from the nearby coffee shop and was still wearing his leather jacket and a familiar purple scarf. He was staring intently at the coffee cup trying to mentally prepare himself for whatever Hotch had to say. Hotch was usually quite stoic, but today Morgan could hear something in his voice that led him to believe Hotch was distressed.

"The cause and manner of death were obviously suicide and heroin overdose, but when the medical examiner performed the autopsy, she also found a tumor, a very large brain tumor." Hotch paused, letting the first bit of information sink in. Morgan looked as though he had been hit by a ton of bricks, and Hotch resumed his explanation, anticipating his questions.

"I called the medical examiner to get a more detailed explanation. She informed me that this tumor was likely the cause of Reid's chronic migraines as well as his auditory hallucinations." Morgan's head snapped up.

"Was it operable?" Hotch sighed, knowing this was the hardest part.

"At its current size, no. But if it had been caught six to nine months before Reid's death, then yes, it quite possibly was operable." Morgan jumped up from the table, his anger rising.

"He had an MRI and a PET scan one year ago! That neurologist was supposed to be the best! How the fuck did they miss this? They told him his headaches were psychosomatic, sent him to a psychiatrist! That doctor fucking killed him! He killed him!" Before anyone could stop him, Morgan punched his fist through the wall. No one knew what to say. Even Garcia was afraid to approach him. Morgan felt as though he was suffocating; he needed to get out of the room. "Hotch, I gotta get outta here man. I, I, I can't breathe right now. I'm taking a few personal days; I'm not cleared for field work anyhow so I'm assuming that's okay." Four pairs of eyes flitted from Hotch to Morgan and back and forth. Hotch didn't attempt to stop Morgan; instead he let him flee. The rest of the team just sat there, speechless.

A few weeks went by. Morgan still couldn't pass his psych evaluation, and Hotch began to wonder if he was even trying. He showed up at the office at the last possible second, left as soon as possible and spent half the workday in a daze instead of working. Hotch didn't know what to do. Morgan was shutting out the entire team, even Garcia. He had lost weight and muscle tone, indicating that he wasn't even using exercise as an outlet for his emotions. The grieving agent wore the purple scarf all day, every day. Hotch also got the impression that after his mother returned to Chicago, Morgan began drinking heavily. He was extremely worried about Morgan's mental health, but did not have enough evidence to prove that he was a danger to himself in order to have him temporarily committed. Then there were the effects of doing so on his career, but he would choose saving Morgan's life over his career, although he felt like his career was the only thing he had left.

Morgan sat in his living room, an empty bottle of whiskey sitting on the coffee table, a second bottle already half empty. He had made the decision. The brief note simply read:

_Bury me with our whistle, our purple scarf, and Spencer's ashes._

He placed the objects together nearby, but far enough away that his brain matter wouldn't splatter onto them. He had come into possession of Reid's revolver after his death, and he loaded a single bullet into the gun, spinning the chamber. _If Spencer were here he would tell me the statistics on Russian roulette, and the odds of the bullet being in the chamber each time I pull the trigger. But Spencer's not here. He can't be. That's why I have to go to him._

Morgan texted Hotch "911" and then put the revolver to his temple. He cocked the gun and pulled the trigger. Click. Again. Click. Again. Click.


End file.
